


Like a Bad Movie, I'll Drop a Line

by CitrusVanille



Series: There's Room for Two [2]
Category: McFly
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-05
Updated: 2008-10-05
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6585568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"So, remember that time you walked in on me wanking in the toilet and decided you wanted to lend a hand?"</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Bad Movie, I'll Drop a Line

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to There's Room for Two because I couldn't make my brain shut up, but it can be read on its own. Thanks to [](http://figletofvenice.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://figletofvenice.livejournal.com/)figletofvenice, for putting up with my ongoing brain-melt and for doing that wonderful beta-thing.

“So, remember that time you walked in on me wanking in the toilet and decided you wanted to lend a hand?” he asks, because this has been driving him mad for – well, pretty much since it happened – and if he doesn’t just come right out and say it, he’ll pussyfoot around it until he’s completely lost his nerve.

Tom freezes, eyes fixed on the television, the flickering lights doing nothing to hide his instantaneous flush. “I – uh – what?” He doesn’t turn away from the movie.

Dougie shifts on the couch cushion, moving only fractionally closer because he wants this – he _wants_ this, _fuck_ does he want this – but he won’t pressure Tom, just. He won’t do it. “I just thought maybe you might want to do it again,” he says in a rush, fingers twisting nervously in a loose thread at the hem of his boxers before he forces himself to let go. “Sometime. Maybe. Or. You know. I could. Uhm. Return the favour?” His face is easily as red as Tom’s is, but Tom isn’t looking at him – is still staring determinedly at the screen, at Ariel singing and swimming around her cavern of treasures (the little tart). And it’s really not even funny how much Dougie just wants to shove his hand down Tom’s pants, or maybe just slide off the couch and onto his knees and – yeah. So the blushing isn’t really what Dougie’s concerned with.

“You want to –” Tom’s hands clench in the loose material of his sweatpants and he swallows so hard Dougie can almost _hear_ it.

“Yeah,” Dougie breathes, and it’s his turn to swallow hard when Tom finally – _finally_ – turns to look at him, dark eyes almost black in the false light from the film. And.

“Yeah,” Tom echoes, voice low, barely a whisper, and Dougie’s not sure who moves first, but two seconds later Tom’s got a fistful of Dougie’s shirt and is attacking his mouth with teeth and tongue and Dougie has his fingers curled in the waistband of Tom’s sweats. And _Christ_ can Tom kiss, and they’ll really have to explore that more at some point, but right now – right now Dougie just really, really needs to be on his knees.

He detaches his mouth from Tom’s and slides down, urging, “Up – up” – lips sliding against the skin of Tom’s chest as he goes – so Tom will lift his hips and Dougie can pull Tom’s sweats and boxers down with him.

“Fuck, Doug –” Tom groans, and there’s an awkward moment of tangled clothing because Tom won’t let go of Dougie’s shirt. Dougie releases his own hold long enough to let Tom pull it off and then he’s on the floor, bracketed between Tom’s knees, and. Fuck, he did not think this through.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, because _what the hell is he supposed to do now?_ And he can feel the way the exhale hits Tom’s skin and washes back to him and Tom fucking _twitches_ , a shuddery moan escaping from his lips somewhere above Dougie’s head. The part of Dougie’s brain that’s screaming _You have no clue how to do this, you fucking idiot!_ shuts off like someone hit the power button.

He reaches out, touches Tom’s knee, feels the way the skin jumps at his touch, and slides his fingers up, calluses from playing the bass dragging across Tom’s upper thigh. He leans in, presses a kiss to the soft skin on the inside of Tom’s thigh, flicks his tongue out once, testing. Tom makes a noise that sounds a lot like a whimper, and his hips jerk slightly like he’s trying to get closer.

Dougie can’t help but grin into the kiss, and he only hesitates a fraction of a second before he wraps his hand around Tom’s cock and shifts close enough to lick a stripe up the underside, along the vein. It’s not bad, he decides, just different, and that – that noise Tom just made – is definitely a whimper, and Dougie wants to hear it again. He closes his eyes and wraps his lips around the head, tongues tentatively at the slit and – that choked noise Tom’s making like he’s trying to be quiet? Even better than the whimper.

Feeling a little more confident, Dougie goes down farther, sucks a bit – cheeks hollowing – and Tom makes a slightly garbled noise, hips jerking up, and Dougie chokes, yanks back, coughing, eyes watering.

“Fuck fuck fuck –” Tom chants, voice harsh, words scrambling for space as they leave his mouth. “Dougie – so fucking sorry – sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dougie says, blinking to clear his eyes, his own voice rough in his throat. He looks up and Tom is staring down at him, pupils blown in the shifting blue light from the screen, hair a mess like he’s had his hands in it. “It’s okay,” Dougie says again, and he gently strokes along Tom’s calf with one hand, gliding his fingers up to his knee, his thigh, almost petting him. “I’m fine. It’s fine.” And he’s not sure why he’s the one doing the comforting here, but Tom looks about a heartbeat away from panic, and that is so not conducive to orgasms, so.

“You’re sure you’re –” Tom starts, but Dougie can already feel the tension starting to ease from his muscles. He moves his other hand up to Tom’s hip, stomach, back to his hip, then back to fist his cock again. Tom’s head drops halfway back as he groans, but he somehow manages to say, “Doug – you don’t have to –”

Dougie just tightens his fingers, jerks him once, saliva easing the friction slightly, says, “I want to, Fletcher, so shut up and let me.”

Tom’s head hits the back of the sofa as he groans again, and Dougie takes that as a, “By all means, Mr. Poynter, have at.”

He goes down again, more carefully this time, bracing one arm across Tom’s hips to hold him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Tom practically hisses, and the rest of what he says is muffled, like he’s biting his lip, or – Dougie glances up, and sees the fist Tom has against his mouth. He hums a bit, slightly disappointed, but then Tom jerks against him, and the muffled noises he makes are almost as good. He twists his wrist, feels Tom jerk again, and just goes for it, trying to get a rhythm between his hand and his mouth.

It might be ten seconds later, might be ten minutes, Dougie’s not sure, but one of Tom’s hands threads its way into his hair, tugging, and Tom’s legs are shaking, hips trying to push up against Dougie’s restraining arm, and Tom is suddenly rasping out his name, “Dougie – Doug – Doug – you gotta – I’m gonna –”

And Dougie doesn’t pull back, isn’t sure what makes him stay when Tom is clearly trying to warn him, but. He _wants_ this. And then Tom is coming _in Dougie’s mouth_ and it’s hot and salty and bitter, and Dougie somehow manages not to gag. When he finally does pull back he swallows, because like hell he’s going to keep that in his mouth until he can find somewhere to spit it, but it’s totally worth it when he looks up again at Tom – who is still shaking, coming down, looking totally wrecked – and sees the way his eyes widen impossibly when Dougie licks automatically at his lips.

“Dougie – Dougie, come here,” Tom tugs Dougie up by the back of the neck, fingers still knotted in his hair, and smashes their mouths together, tongue skimming past Dougie’s lips, flicking at his teeth. Dougie moans into it, and pushes his cockagainst Tom’s hip, seeking some kind of relief, because he’s so fucking hard right now, was before, and getting Tom off was possibly the hottest thing Dougie has ever done. He practically whines when Tom mutters, “Let me, let me,” against his mouth and shoves his hand inside Dougie’s boxers, fingers closing around his cock and jerking hard, fast. It’s almost too much, but Dougie can’t care because it’s good – really fucking good – and it’s fucking _Tom_ , and it’s over far, far too quickly, Dougie biting into Tom’s lip, nails digging into Tom’s shoulders when he comes, and holy fucking _hell_.

It takes a little while for Dougie to come down, and Tom keeps an arm around him, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck, tracing random patterns over his back. Dougie sighs against him, nuzzling into his neck.

“We should probably clean up,” Tom says after a moment, voice a little strained and a little stilted.

Dougie pulls away abruptly, sleepy afterglow feeling vanishing in a heartbeat, thinking, _Shit, shit, shit. That doesn’t sound good._ “Did you – was that – was I not–” the words tumble out as Dougie has a moment of pure panic, wondering if he pressured Tom after all, or if he’d just made a complete fool of himself and given the world’s worst blowjob in the history of –

“No no no,” Tom’s fingers press hard against the back of Dougie’s head like he knows what Dougie’s thinking. “No, that was – _you_ were – brilliant. So fucking brilliant. It was–” he breaks of and presses his lips to Dougie’s. “Amazing,” he whispers, and, “I just don’t – we’ll stick,” he gestures awkwardly between them, and, yeah, dried come is kind of gross, so.

“I’ll be,” Tom shifts, wriggles out from under Dougie, stands, pulls on his boxers, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” And he vanishes towards the toilet, returning a moment later with a washcloth and another pair of boxers.

“’Cause yours are, you know,” he says, and Dougie gratefully changes.

There are a few moments of adjusting positions on the couch as they settle back in to watch the rest of the film (Dougie’s a little bummed they missed _Under the Sea_ , but _fuck_ , totally worth the sacrifice). Dougie curls into Tom’s side, and tries not to smile too much when Tom wraps an arm around his waist.

“Who do you think is more fit, me or Ariel?” Dougie asks ten minutes later, and he’s not sure why he says it, but.

Tom peers down at him, a slightly exasperated look on his face. “What?”

“You said you thought she was fit,” Dougie says, cocking his head up to see Tom’s face more clearly.

Tom rolls his eyes. “Shut up and watch the film, Poynter,” he says, and turns back to the screen.

Dougie hums a bit, curls closer, and, for once, does as he’s told.

The film is almost over, and Dougie’s warm and half-asleep when Tom tucks his cheek against the top of Dougie’s head and murmurs, “You, hands down, every time.”

Dougie doesn’t say anything, but he grins, and thinks triumphantly at the screen, _Ha. I win,_ as he buries his nose in Tom’s neck.


End file.
